


slow hand

by gothyringwald



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: First Kiss, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Hair Washing, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Massage, Piercings, Pining, Resolved Sexual Tension, Sensuality, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-11
Updated: 2019-11-11
Packaged: 2021-01-27 07:35:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21388447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gothyringwald/pseuds/gothyringwald
Summary: After a night of monster fighting all Billy wants is a hot shower to get all of the monster goo off of him and, most importantly, out of his hair. But, with an injured arm that he can’t get wet, it proves to be a little difficult. When Steve offers to wash Billy’s hair for him, Billy is too tired to pretend he wants to say anything but yes.
Relationships: Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington
Comments: 115
Kudos: 918





	slow hand

**Author's Note:**

> Just wanted to write something a bit more sensual and also with hair washing so...here it is!

Billy is slumped by the toilet in Steve’s _en suite_, the porcelain cool at his back, tiles cold beneath his thighs. Every inch of him aches and his arm, which throbs and stings beneath tight white bandages, is the only clean part of his body. The rest is covered in dirt and blood and sweat; the loamy scent of monster clings to him, thick at the back of his throat.

He breathes in—blood, soap, steam—and breathes out again.

Water splashes behind a not entirely opaque curtain, Steve’s outline visible if Billy looks hard enough. He does.

He’s tired, sure, but he’s not so tired that the thought of Steve naked, of water running down Steve’s back, over his chest, doesn’t affect him. Shit. Billy shifts, feels heat prickle under his jaw, up his throat. Arrowing down to his groin. The last thing he needs right now is a hard-on.

He looks away.

But his eyes land on Steve’s discarded clothes and he remembers Steve stripping off, too grossed out by the gunk all over him to care that Billy might have been watching.

Billy’s own clothes are equally ruined; there’s a large tear all down the side of his jeans and he’d wear them like that, because why the fuck not, but the monster blood is probably never going to come out. 

Fuck. He’s going to have to get new jeans. Again. Maybe he’ll just start buying all his clothes at the thrift store. It will piss his dad off—they’re not _poor_, they can afford new clothes—but Billy has almost saved enough money again to move out on his own. There’s a trailer he’s had his eye on. It’s small, kind of shitty, and it’s a _trailer_, but it would be his own.

Or maybe he’ll leave Hawkins for good. It’s what he’s wanted for so long but now—

The soft sound of humming rises above the falling water; it’s rough and husky because Steve had been yelling, at Billy, at the kids who aren’t really kids anymore, warning them. Keeping them safe. But it’s kind of…nice—comforting—to hear Steve hum as he showers. Something warm blooms in Billy’s gut, rising up behind his ribs. 

‘Hurry up, will you,’ Billy grouses, rubbing at his chest, ‘I feel fucking disgusting.’

Moments later the shower shuts off and Steve pokes his head around the curtain. ‘Did you say something?’

‘Yeah, are you done?’

Steve nods. ‘Can you hand me that towel?’ He gestures toward the towel rack, wet hair falling into his face. He shakes his head, little drops of water pattering on the curtain, but his hair only flops back down. It looks good.

Billy pushes himself up, but leans on his bad arm, forgetting, and it gives way beneath his weight. He falls back on his ass, hissing in a breath. ‘Shit.’

Metal screeches across metal as Steve pulls the shower curtain back. ‘Are you OK?’ Puddles form by Steve’s feet.

If Billy looks up, he knows Steve’s cock will be right in his eye-line. It’s a bad idea, to look, because the first thrum of arousal is already tugging at him. But he can’t _not_ look—

Steve grabs the towel, wraps it around his waist, and extends an arm to Billy. The angry flush of a bruise colours the skin stretched over his ribs, just below his heart.

Billy looks at Steve’s hand, at his torn-up knuckles, and doesn’t move.

‘C’mon’—Steve shakes his hand—‘let me help you up.’

‘I can manage,’ Billy says, but he takes Steve’s hand, lets him pull him to his feet. His head swims at the sudden change from sitting to standing and he sways a little. He ignores the concerned look Steve turns on him.

‘I still think you should go to the hospital for your arm,’ Steve says. His fingers catch on Billy’s as he pulls his hand away. 

‘No hospitals.’ Never again. Billy had spent too long there and he’s never going back.

‘OK,’ Steve says, gently. He clears his throat and steps back. His chest hair is damp, matted to his skin; it arrows between his ribs, drawing Billy’s gaze down, down, down. ‘Well, shower’s all yours.’

Billy nods but he doesn’t move. 

Steve presses his lips together. ‘Are you OK to take a shower?’

‘I don’t need you to hold my hand.’ An image of Steve in the shower with him flashes in Billy’s mind and he’s too tired to push it away. He licks his lips, clears his throat. ‘Or were you hoping for a free peep show?’ he adds with a half-hearted wink. 

Steve rolls his eyes. ‘I just meant…’ He sighs. ‘I can draw you a bath.’

Billy is about to say _shove the bath_, because that’s what he _does_, but the idea of standing for the entire length it will take him to get clean is exhausting. And he needs to keep his arm dry. ‘Fine, whatever.’

‘OK.’ Steve’s lips quirk and he turns to the bath, puts in the plug, and turns the faucets. He sits on the edge of the tub as it fills, fingers lazily skimming the water. ‘We don’t have bubbles.’

‘I think I’ll survive.’ Billy leans back against the sink, arms and ankles crossed.

Steve gives him a sleepy smile and it hits Billy that Steve must be at least as exhausted as Billy is, but he’s still doing this for him. It should make him angry, being treated like he can’t take care of himself, and so he waits for the anger to come but…it doesn’t. There is only a warm, tender sort of feeling that Billy can’t explain.

‘How hot do you like it?’

Billy blinks, heat crawling into his cheeks. ‘What?’

‘The water?’

‘Oh.’ Billy shrugs one shoulder and manages to say, ’Hot.’

‘OK, well, it’s hot,’ Steve says, shutting the faucet off and standing. He hugs his arms around his stomach, drawing Billy’s eye to the curves of his biceps, the breadth of his shoulders, even as they’re hunched. Makes Billy think of his waist hidden beneath his arms, the way his back narrows into it, how Billy’s wondered what it would feel like under his hands.

Billy shakes himself and moves over to the tub, stands by Steve. This close he can smell that shower clean warm skin scent, feel the lingering heat radiating off of Steve. Feel something else, besides, something like static electricity.

‘I’ll, um, leave you to it,’ Steve says, taking one step away from Billy, then another. He pauses by the door.

Billy’s pulling his shirt over his head. ‘You still after that peep show?’ he asks, throwing his soiled shirt aside.

‘You wish,’ Steve says, but there’s pink in his cheeks. Probably the warmth of the bathroom. ‘If you need anything…’ He dips his gaze, eyelashes fanning over the dark smudges under his eyes. ‘Just, you know, yell out.’

This is where Billy would usually make a lewd remark, true desires masked with a mock-sarcastic quip. But the way he feels right now—tired and raw and a little turned on—he knows it wouldn’t sound like a joke at all. So he flips Steve off and says, ‘I know how to take a bath,’ and Steve rolls his eyes and shuts the door behind him.

Billy sheds the rest of his clothes, dropping them on top of Steve’s, and sinks into the hot water. A low groan escapes him as he settles back. He rests in the tub with his eyes closed for a while, letting the water soothe his muscles, but he has to get clean before the water goes cold.

So he dunks his head back under the water, then comes back up and grabs a bottle of shampoo. He flips it open and sniffs. It smells nice. Billy squeezes some into his palm but, when he lifts his arm to put the shampoo in his hair, pain shoots from his wrist up into his shoulder. ‘Fuck.’

The door opens and Steve pokes his head inside. ‘You OK?’ 

‘Fine,’ Billy grits out.

‘If you need any help—‘

‘I’m not a fucking invalid.’

‘Billy…’

‘I can’t lift my arm,’ Billy grits out. At Steve’s frown he adds, ‘I need to wash my hair.’

‘Oh.’ There’s a moment where Billy thinks that maybe Steve will slam the door and tell Billy to stop being such a baby—Billy wouldn’t blame him—but Steve only says, ‘I can fix that.’

‘What?’

Steve comes back into the room—the towel is gone, replaced by boxer shorts that conceal too much and not enough—moving around the tub to crouch behind Billy. ‘Hand me the shampoo.’

‘What?’ Billy turns and Steve is closer than he’d realised. Really close. Steve is kneeling with his hands braced on the tub, either side of Billy’s shoulders. It’s not like he hasn’t thought about Steve on his knees for him, but it was never like this in his fantasies. ‘What are you doing?’

‘I’ll wash your hair.’

Billy nearly chokes. ‘_What_?’

‘Have you lost the ability to say anything but “what”?’

‘No, I—‘ His mouth feels hot and too dry. ‘My hair’s fine.’

‘It’s gross.’

‘Thanks.’

‘It’s got monster goo in it. You can’t leave it like that. You can’t wash it, so I’ll do it for you.’ Steve’s breath is warm on the side of Billy’s face. ‘Or do you want me to go wake my mom up and she can do it instead?’

Billy flushes. ‘Fuck off,’ he says, but he hands the shampoo bottle over to Steve, their fingers brushing as it passes between them and settles back in the tub. His heart thuds hard, and he feels hot all over.

There is the plastic snick of the cap being opened and the wheeze of the bottle as Steve squeezes it. A moment later, Steve’s fingers are in Billy’s hair, massaging shampoo in brisk circles, blunt nails scratching his scalp. Once or twice, they snag on a knot, sending a sharp spike of pain through Billy’s head.

‘Ouch,’ Billy says.

’Sorry.’

Another snag and Billy jerks away, rubbing at his scalp. ‘Watch it, Harrington.’

‘If you’re going to be a brat, you can wash your own damn hair.’

‘I didn’t even ask you—’ At the absence of Steve’s warmth against Billy’s shoulders, he says, ‘Fine, I’ll keep quiet.’

Steve snorts. ‘That’ll be the day,’ he says but then his fingers are back in Billy’s hair. Moving in circles. Gentler this time, but still firm, massaging into Billy’s scalp.

It’s weird to let someone touch him like this; he can’t remember if anyone ever has. As a child, but this isn’t like that. And at the hairdresser, sure, but it’s not the same when it’s someone you know touching you like this. Someone you—

It feels…it feels so _good_. It always feels good when Steve touches him—the clap of a hand to his shoulder, the nudge of a knee against his own, the brush of an arm—but _this_… 

Fuck. Billy’s never going to feel anything less than disappointed when washing his own hair after this. He has to stop himself from moaning when Steve’s thumbs dig into the hollow at the base of his skull. 

It goes straight to his groin and Billy realises he’s been sitting here, thighs spread. Totally exposed.

It’s not as though modesty has ever been one of his finer qualities but with Steve’s _hands_ on him— 

Billy moves his arm to cover himself, breath hitching when the inside of his arm brushes his slowly filling cock.

Maybe Steve won’t notice. Not like he’d be looking, though sometimes Billy catches his eye and wonders.

Too soon, Steve’s hands leave his hair, and Steve is moving away.

‘Where are you going?’ Billy asks, voice coming out all wrecked. He clenches his jaw.

‘Need to rinse your hair,’ Steve says. ‘I won’t be long.’

The door opens—letting in a slice of cold air—and closes again. A few minutes later Steve comes back with a jug, fills it at the sink, and moves back to kneel behind Billy. ‘Tilt your head back,’ he says.

It rankles, an automatic thing, to be told what to do. But Billy does it and with no argument; the position exposes his throat and he has to close his eyes. Not just to keep the water out, but because he can’t look at Steve. Not right now, not like this.

Warm water sluices over Billy’s scalp, Steve’s fingers moving through his hair to rinse out the suds and monster goo. It’s not long before he’s finished but he leaves one hand threaded in Billy’s hair, cradling the base of Billy’s skull.

Billy lets his head rest in Steve’s palm because he’s tired and it feels good. He opens his eyes.

Steve is leaning over him, eyes dark and wide. This close, Billy can see the tinge of green to them.

The silence that was comfortable enough while Steve was washing Billy’s hair, and Billy didn’t have to look at him, is becoming unbearable. So, Billy says, ‘If the job at Family Video falls through, you could always be a hair washer.’

This gets the barest hint of a smile from Steve. ‘Maybe I should wash it again,’ he says. There’s something breathless about his voice that shoots straight through Billy. ‘Just in case I missed anything.’

Billy only hums in response and lets his eyes slide closed again. It’s easier than saying anything else. Safer. He doesn’t know what he might say because he doesn’t know what is _happening_. Only that he’s tired and it feels good to let Steve do this and he doesn’t want it to stop. 

It feels even better this time, when Steve sinks his fingers into Billy’s hair. The _scritch_ of his hair against his scalp, the hiss of the suds, the low susurrations of Steve’s breaths. Steve’s thumbs sliding down either side of Billy’s neck, massaging his temples, the hinges of his jaw. 

Billy’s bad arm is propped on the rim of the tub, the other resting by his thigh in the water, and he feels like all his bones have liquified. He sinks a little further into the water with a sigh.

‘Don’t get shampoo in my eyes,’ he says when Steve’s fingers brush over his eyebrows.

‘I’m not going to,’ Steve says, a little amused, a little annoyed.

‘Hm.’ Water laps at Billy’s thighs, tickling through his hair, as he shifts against the tub.

Steve runs his thumb along the shell of Billy’s ear, massages his lobes between thumb and forefinger. Billy’s not sure his ears have ever felt this sensitive. Not sure he’s ever felt turned on from having his ears touched. But it’s more than that. It’s all of Steve’s touches accumulating, one after another, setting Billy alight.

Usually arousal hits Billy like a freight train, tension bolting through every inch of him, building and building until it bursts. But this is a slow heat, a simmering thing. He’s hard, completely, but there’s no real urgency in it. Not like there almost always is for Billy. This, he wants to last.

When Steve rinses Billy’s hair again, and Billy tilts his head back without being asked, it feels like some kind of offering. Of what, Billy doesn’t want to think. He knows he wants Steve. He’s not in denial about that, hasn’t been for months now. But he doesn’t know if he can give himself to Steve like _this_. 

Maybe he already has, though. Letting Steve take care of him feels more intimate than if he’d rolled over and let Steve fuck him.

‘Do you need anything else?’ Steve asks and, shit, he sounds as wrecked as Billy feels. 

The rise and fall of Steve’s chest against the back of Billy’s head is faster than it should be. ‘Yeah,’ Billy says. He knows that Steve can see that he’s hard from this; he’s not hiding it. There’s no way Steve hasn’t seen, hasn’t looked. Billy is sure of that now. It’s in Steve’s voice, in the touch of his hands.

And, yet, when Steve asks, ‘What?’ Billy pulls away.

He grabs the washcloth, throws it over his shoulder with a shaking hand—it lands on Steve with a wet thwack—and says, ‘Get my back, will you?’

It’s obvious that Steve wasn’t expecting that answer and he sounds disappointed when he says, ‘OK,’ but he reaches past Billy for the bar of soap—armpit brushing Billy’s shoulder—and lathers it up. 

Billy leans forward, knees raising, but thighs still spread.

Steve runs the washcloth over Billy’s back, over the scars there and the new tattoos that cover the shallowest of them. The other scars were too deep, he was told, and harder to cover. Not impossible but in the end he had decided to leave them.

Steve traces over one tattoo, the head of a panther, mouth opened in a silent roar, on Billy’s right shoulder. ‘This one’s cool,’ he says, finger moving in short strokes, like he’s petting the panther’s head.

‘Yeah.’

Steve huffs and runs his fingers lower, skimming Billy’s sides. Billy sucks in a breath, a shiver rolling through him.

‘Ticklish?’ Steve asks.

‘No.’

Steve makes a noise like he doesn’t believe Billy and keeps going. He takes longer than he needs to and eventually the washcloth is discarded, the pretence of washing Billy’s back seemingly discarded along with it. But his hands still move over Billy’s skin, mapping the contours of his muscles, easing tension as he massages out knots, soothing more than the physical aches and pains.

Each time his hands sweep over Billy’s back they dip lower, lower, lower, until his fingers skim the top of Billy’s ass. Billy wants him to go further but he stays silent, lets Steve do this. Lets Steve dig the heels of his palms under his shoulder blades, push his thumbs into the notches of his spine, silently telling Billy: _I’ve got you_. 

A moan does escape Billy, then, low and soft and broken.

Steve’s hands still on his shoulders. ‘Billy—’

‘Don’t,’ Billy says, tongue thick in his mouth, ‘don’t stop.’

A shaking breath skates over his shoulder and then Steve’s hands are moving again. Creeping forward, cresting Billy’s shoulders, until Steve’s long fingers are splayed on his chest and his thumbs rest on Billy’s clavicles.

‘What are you doing?’ Billy asks, heart pounding, breath coming fast.

‘I thought—’ Steve’s hands slip back but Billy grabs them.

‘I said don’t stop.’

Steve huffs. ‘You’re so…’

‘So what?’

But Steve doesn’t answer, just presses his thumbs into Billy’s collarbone, kneads his fingers into Billy’s flesh. He pushes his hands down, slowly, obscuring the rose tattoo on Billy’s chest, until they are curved over Billy’s pecs.

The sight of Steve’s hands on his naked skin makes Billy’s breath catch. His hands are so— Billy’s spent a lot of time looking at Steve, cataloguing him, but he’s usually focussed on the bow of his too-pink lips, the curve of his ass, the bulge of his dick, his dark eyes. He’s never paid enough attention to his hands—the neat shape of them, the prominent veins, his long fingers—but they’re already his new obsession.

‘Did these hurt?’ Steve asks, moving his hands so his thumbs brush the silver barbells through Billy’s nipples.

‘What do you think?’ Billy says. He’s breathing fast, pushing Steve’s hands up and down, up and down.

‘I don’t know’—Steve’s nose brushes Billy’s ear—‘that’s why I asked.’

‘Someone stuck a needle through me,’ Billy says, water sloshing as he moves his legs. ‘Yes, it hurt.’

Steve turns one—hesitating, experimental—and for one moment Billy thinks he’s going to come, just from that. He hasn’t been with anyone since he had them done and, fuck, this is nothing like playing with them himself.

His voice is rough and low when he says, ‘Why? You thinking of getting some?’ Billy finds he likes the thought. Matching silver barbells, skin-warm against Billy’s mouth as he—

‘No fucking way.’

‘Wuss.’ Billy tries not to let his disappointment seep too much into his voice.

‘Wouldn’t suit me.’ Steve’s lips brush the edge of Billy’s jaw as he says, ‘Suits you, though.’

‘I know.’

Another tweak, more assured. ‘So modest.’ And then Steve’s hands are moving again, thumbs pressing into Billy’s sternum, fingers fanning over his ribs.

It feels…incredible, really. And Steve hasn’t even gone near his dick. Billy wonders how long this can last before one, or both of them, comes to their breaking point. He’s not patient by nature but there’s a part of him that wants to see if he can outlast Steve in this. 

And then Steve’s hands still again.

One comes to rest on Billy’s stomach, the other gently at the base of Billy’s throat, thumb stroking over his racing pulse. Steve leans close, cheek against cheek, and says, ‘Are you sure you don’t want a hand with anything else?’

‘That line usually work?’ Billy puts his hand over Steve’s on his stomach, thumb pushing into the well of Steve’s palm. 

‘Well,’ Steve says, breath hot, raising goosebumps on Billy’s neck, ‘I tried the subtle approach. Maybe I need to be more direct.’

‘You call this subtle?’

’Not really.’ There is a laugh in Steve’s voice but it turns serious when he says, ‘I just want to—’

Billy’s stomach jumps beneath Steve’s palm. ‘Just want to what?’

The shuddering intake of a breath, and then: ‘I want to take care of you.’

Fuck. _Fuck_. Billy pulls on Steve’s hand until it rests on the crease of his thigh. ‘I’ve got something you can take care of.’

‘Does _that_ line usually work?’

‘I don’t know, you tell me.’

‘Jesus,’ Steve says, ‘you’re fucking corny,’ biting at Billy’s ear. And then his hand is moving from Billy’s thigh to curl around his cock.

Billy pushes up into the grip immediately, a low strangled moan ripping from his throat. It would be embarrassing if this all didn’t feel so good. So right. If he hadn’t needed this for so long.

‘Fuck,’ Steve breathes, hand tightening on Billy, moving over him. Thumb flicking the head of his dick. His other hand rubbing over Billy’s chest, his stomach, his thigh. 

It’s only a hand job but it’s everything Billy has wanted for so so long. He lets his head fall back, resting on Steve’s shoulder, one hand gripping Steve’s bicep. It flexes beneath his palm as Steve jerks him off. When he turns his head, Steve’s chest hair tickles against his face. 

Distantly, he’s aware of Steve saying things—‘So hot’ and ‘Fuck’ and ‘Billy’—but the blood roaring in his ears distorts the words. The water is cooling but he’s burning hot all over, where Steve is touching him and where he’s not.

‘How do you like it?’

‘I—’ Billy can’t think, can only say, ‘Fast.’

‘Like this?’ Steve’s hand speeds up. At Billy’s answering grunt, the cant of his hips, the tightening of his fingers on Steve’s arm, Steve says, ‘Are you close?’

‘Fuck, yes,’ Billy says. It feels like he’s been close for _hours_.

‘I wanna’—Steve twists his wrist, scrapes his teeth over Billy’s pulse—‘I wanna see you.’

And then Billy comes, face pressed to Steve’s chest, fingers sinking into Steve’s bicep. It rips through him, leaving him quaking from head to toe. He even feels it in his fucking _teeth_. ’Christ.’

It leaves him trembling and breathless and feeling open and exposed in a way he’s not sure he ever has after sex, before.

Steve washes his hand off, and then he holds Billy close against his chest—‘I’ve got you, I’ve got you’—kissing his neck, his cheek, his temple.

‘Never mind hair washer,’ Billy says, though he’s not sure how he can talk at _all_, ‘you could make a living from that.’

‘Nope,’ Steve says. He turns Billy’s head so he’s looking at him. ‘Only for you.’ He blinks, eyes dipping, and pushes a hand into Billy’s hair to move it off his face. ‘OK?’

‘Yeah,’ Billy says, not entirely sure what he’s saying _yeah_ to. He pushes himself up, peers over the side of the tub, and smirks at the outline of Steve’s dick, straining against his shorts. ‘Want me to sort you out?’ He looks up, runs his tongue along his bottom lip. A promise and a suggestion.

Steve’s gaze goes even hotter—pupils blown wide—but he shakes his head. ‘Later.’ He leans forward and kisses Billy—their first—his hands cupping Billy’s jaw. He slides his tongue past Billy’s lips, runs it along his teeth, the roof of his mouth. 

Billy threads one hand into Steve’s hair, the other resting on the tub, and kisses back with all he’s got. 

Steve pulls away with a quiet moan, lips and eyes shining. His hand dips into the water, fingers dancing close to Billy’s skin. ‘Water’s getting cold.’

‘It is.’ Billy’s about to say something like _I’d better get out so you can warm me up again_, something transparently suggestive, something _corny_. 

But before he can, Steve cuts in with, ‘Can I take you to bed?’ his eyes, steady and hopeful, holding Billy’s.

Something flutters behind Billy’s ribs. He thinks—hopes—that Steve is asking this more than euphemistically. That he’s asking if Billy will let Steve take care of him a little longer. And maybe in the morning this will be too much and Billy will want to run, but tonight he exhales long and slow and rests his head against Steve’s. ‘Yeah,’ he says, ‘yeah, OK.’

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading this little slice of self indulgence - I'm a little anxious about this one but I hope you enjoyed reading as much as I enjoyed writing :) I’ve got [a little text promo post for the fic on tumblr](https://gothyringwald.tumblr.com/post/188963527833/slow-hand) :)
> 
> I feel a bit like I’ve lost my grip on both of their characterisations, lately (is it OK to say that???), but I really really needed this fic. And this is how it turned out! And I think I like it?
> 
> So, I figured, just in case it was the fic someone else needed, I’d share it! If nothing else, I’ve satisfied my need for Steve washing Billy’s hair…except now I REALLY need Billy washing Steve’s ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> Title from the song of the same name by the Pointer Sisters (awesome song—I also love the similarly titled Slow Hands, plural, by Interpol but…not the same vibe haha)
> 
> Note added 30/11/19: SO I always forget something when I'm writing up my notes. I meant to say that the Billy with tattoos thing is something I've loved from like day one (I've written it into a few fics before) but ofc now post S3 it's got a bit of a different spin with covering scars, and also that Billy with a tat is canon! BUT I'm not sure if the nipple piercings came from my own brain and then I saw some art and was like 'hey it's not just me!' or if I saw the art first and then absorbed it so...yes. (It was definitely one of granpappy-winchester's beautiful pieces of art at any rate...) Basically, I'm just not sure if I can claim that as an idea that came solely from my own brain or not XD


End file.
